


Symetric lives

by Ixtilton



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 22:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ixtilton/pseuds/Ixtilton
Summary: Hey, this is the translation from French of my very short OS, originally posted on fanfiction.net  Enjoy





	Symetric lives

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Les vies symétriques](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/349053) by Thumette. 



> Hey, this is the translation from French of my very short OS, originally posted on fanfiction.net Enjoy

Under the king Aegon IV, Brynden Rivers is a lonely little boy in a huge castle. His father is the king, but he’s not allowed to see him. His mother prays a dead tree, and in the evening, her stories have the taste of the Bracken’s felony. The other people avoid him whenever they can. A purple splash stains his white skin, his hair is like a dead bark and his eyes have a red colour. “Monster”, they whisper as he passes by them.

Under the king Aegon IV, Aegor Rivers is a lonely little boy in a huge castle. His father is the king, somewhere, far away. He chased his mother and had his aunt and his grandfather executed. And now, the evening’s lullabies have the bitterness of the Blackwood’s cruelty. His hair is blacker than night and his purple eyes look like dusk. He raises behind stormy clouds as he passes by the people. One way or another, he will get his revenge.

_The old king’s death gathers them all together, nearby the bed. They say nothing. They do not cry. Brynden thinks of the black sword and looks at his elder. Aegor thinks of the black sword and understands suddenly that he doesn’t hate his disgusting father any more, no, not at all._

Under the king Daeron II, Bloodraven falls in love for the first time. Shiera has got blue and green eyes, and a mouth that only tells him cruel words. He looks for the names of her other lovers and ends up knowing everything about everybody. He believes in the old gods and in his brother Daeron. He is ready to kill on one of his sight. “Sorcerer”, they whisper as he passes by.

Under the king Daemon I, Bittersteel falls in love for the first time. Shiera has got blue and green eyes, a mouth like a rose button, but she doesn’t need him. He exhales fury, his sword is his one reason to be. He doesn’t believe in the gods, but dreams of chaos, armours and steeds. “Act”, he whispers in his brother’s ear. The black dragon is hungry.

_At the Redgrass fields, there they are, face to face. Red and Black, winged horse and pale dragon. “Daemon is dead” tells the red brother. “How?” “I killed him” he says. So the black brother takes his eye, then picks up the sword and vanishes in the mist._

Under the king Aerys I, lord Bloodraven is the iron hand that holds the realm in its grasp. His word is law, and the fair Shiera at last seems to be his. He scarcely believes in anything now that his brother Daeron died in the spring. Hate is his only greedy goddess, his thousand eyes and the one that’s left are staring across the Narrow Sea. As he passes by people, they whisper nothing. They are afraid.

Under the king Daemon II, Bittersteel is a man in exile, dragging his black sword to the four corners of the earth. He fights for shadows and dreams of lost thrones. His golden cloak covers his steel armour that he never leaves. The distant vision of his lost country fills all his thought. Every night he kills his red brother again. He will come back, he has sworn it.

_When the black dragon returns, there they are again, face to face. Battle, victory, they both do not care. Only matter steel and blood, the Red and the Black, wrath and hate. Pieces of flesh fly. Soon enough, they are almost naked, soiled with scarlet dust. Bittersteel falls on his knees. He’s back home. That’s where he’ll die._

Under the king Aegon V, little remains from Bloodraven. Glory, power, titles and wealth, he lost everything. He’s a crow like any other, wandering through frozen woods. Sometimes, he catches himself thinking of those he left behind. He shrugs. Snow is falling, blue eyes are shining in the night. He has all sacrificed to hate. He forgets it. The gods are back.

Under the king Daemon III, Bittersteel is an aged, broken man. He has survived every trial, but has forgotten why he is fighting. They are all gone, Daemon and his sons, even his red brother has failed him. He dies alone, forgotten, unknown, in an alien land. Yet he struggles in a last burst of pride. Boil his skull in molten gold! Even dead, he’ll come back to haunt them!

_On a weirwood throne, the three-eyed raven listens to the song of the earth, the psalmodies of Ages. It dreams of ghostly faces, of a golden whisper that promises again, “I’ll come back, to put a son of Daemon on the Iron Throne, I’ll come back! I swear it!” He never did._

There shall be no tomb for Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven, bastard, sorcerer, albinos, greenseer, master of whisperers, hand of the king, lord commander of the Night’s watch. No tomb. Just roots enclosing him tenderly, and his body slowly melting into them.

There shall be no tomb for Aegor Rivers, Bittersteel, bastard, knight, rebel, sellsword, captain in exile, Blackfyre partisan, founder of the Golden Company. No tomb. Just ashes in the wind, and a boiled skull.


End file.
